


You don't have to say nothing (You don't have to say you're mine)

by watchthequeenconquer



Category: Letterkenny (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Food Porn, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:09:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23491450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchthequeenconquer/pseuds/watchthequeenconquer
Summary: You’re sitting in the kitchen with your best buddy before chorin’ the other day, when you realise the way he eats those goddamn yoghurt cups pertnear drives you to distraction.
Relationships: Daryl/Wayne (Letterkenny)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 148





	You don't have to say nothing (You don't have to say you're mine)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Adore You' by Harry Styles 
> 
> Was so close to calling this silly little ditty 'I like yoghurt cups and I cannot lie' but then the boys hit me with all the feels towards the end. 
> 
> Apologies in advance if the slang isn't completely on par, but the muses wouldn't be denied. 
> 
> Enjoy x

You’re sitting in the kitchen with your best buddy before chorin’ the other day, when you realise the way he eats those goddamn yoghurt cups pertnear drives you to distraction. 

“Ya see, it’s all in the texture.” Darry says, glancing at the contents on his spoon thoughtfully in between slurps. 

“What’re ya goin’ on about, big shoots.” Wayne squints harder at the newspaper in front of him like he couldn’t care less. 

“Smoother than the first squeeze of a cow’s tit on a sunny Sunday morning.”

When Darry’s head dips back down to consider the contents of his cup, messy curls a bobbin’, Wayne chances a glance over the lip of the paper. 

“Pump the breaks, that ain’t no way to speak about a lady like Bessie.” He mutters. 

He can’t quite put his pinkie on it, but something about the entire process drives him spare. 

“Nothin’ untoward, it’s a compliment.” Darry huffs, happily spooning more of the mixture into his mouth, “I just got to finds the words for it.” 

“Or you could pump the breaks. It’s going to be a fine day for hay and you don’t need to be strain yourself cerebrally before the real work starts.” Wayne says, sipping his coffee. Darry goes silent and he hopes that that will be the end of that. 

“That’s why I was thinkin’ bout milkin’!” He announces suddenly, all brightness in his revelation. His eyes are irritatingly bright. 

“Tone it down there, bud. You’re rowdier than a rooster in a hen house.” Wayne grumbles, dropping the newspaper onto the table and folding his arms across his chest. If Darry ain’t going to give him no option but to demand his attention, he’ll pay it, but he ain’t going to enjoy it. 

“It’s all about the taste.” Darry hums, ignoring the warning as he continues his rambling.

“’Kay.” Wayne runs a tired hand over his face, pulling hard on the bridge of his noses, before glancing up, not wanting to seem impolite. 

“It’s surprising in its suppleness. You know like…like the first time you get real personal with a ladies stockings and all the bits concealed underneath it.” Darry giggles with a little leer. He raises his blonde eyebrows suggestively, but it’s the twist of his lips that gets Wayne’s attention. They’re just shy of too thin, but it don’t stop them being oddly enticing in their animation. 

“You really are spare parts, you know that?” Wayne grunts, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Trust Darry to take this down a weirdly sexually road before they’ve even got their boots on for the day.  


“Hear me out, super chief.” Darry asks, continuing his pontification. When a man asks for something, unless you’ve got a good reason to say no, you acquiesce. 

“It’s delightful in the way that appearance is nothing to do with the feel of it once you’ve got your hands on it. You expect it to be cold and slimy, in the same way’s you expect a lady’s fancy undergarments to be rough with all those intricate criss crosses and patterns. Frustratin’ in how hard it is to get off, if ya know what I mean…” 

“Take it down 80-90% there, would ya? Katy’s just upstairs.”

“She’s dead to the world.” 

“It’s impolite.” 

“Well, if you’d just let me finish!” 

“Pitter patter, then.” 

“What I’m meaning to say…” Darry begins in between slurps then trails off again, noisy in his enjoyment. That’s what drives Wayne nuts about it. Just like everything else he does, he’s so forward in sharing just how much it pleases him. 

Men are supposed to be restrained with their words, their choices, their expressions. And then there’s super soft Darry, completely unconcerned with tradition or too thick to be bothered by it. There’s nothing efficient about it. He draws it out like he drags out his sentences, dribbling his half-finished thoughts all over the table. 

“… you peel back this rough surface, expecting more of the same, and you’re kinda surprise in how easy it goes,” Darry gets out, finally, staring into the cup dreamily in consideration, “then you finally get your hands on…” 

“Your mouth.” Wayne interjects. 

“Huh?” 

“You’re getting lost in the metaphor there, princess.”

“Okay Jack Kerouac, who died and made you king of the literature?” Darry objects, banging his spoon on the table, “It’s all sensory, anyhow. It’s meant to be suggestive.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

Wayne tries not to notice how much brighter his eyes get when he gets all passionately worked up like this, like when he’s teeming for a throwdown or when he used to be jonesing for a fix of a different kind. Forgets how blue they are when he gets the chance to share all those fanciful wonderings going on in that thick head of his. 

“And when you finally get down to it, get into the good stuff, it’s creamier than butter on bread that’s just been baking.” Darry groans, eyes fluttering briefly shut as he savours the mouthful he’s currently talking around. 

His dark eyelashes are startlingly, impossibly long against his freckled skin. It’s irritating, Wayne thinks, suddenly, irrationally annoyed, that they’re wasted on Darry who has no idea he’s even using them. 

“Truly poetic stuff there. 10 out of 10-ply.” Wayne drains his coffee mug too quick. He burns his throat and it’s almost gratifying, in the way a punishment should be when you’re messing around with your pal instead of getting down to it. The work that is. 

“The best bit is how thick it is.” Darry murmurs, eyes heavy-lidded, like he’s just woken up instead of being at it for a couple of hours now. 

He runs his tongue over his lips, unintentionally as is his wool headed way, and Wayne feels his stomach twist strangely in response, dipping like it does sometimes when he’s been working in the sun too long and feels like he needs to spit. 

Wayne shoves his chair back, too hard, and stomps over to the sink, depositing his mug with a loud clatter that makes Gus lift his head in alarm. Washes his hands far too roughly to stop his idle mind wandering too, scrubbing at gritty spots that aren’t there. 

“It coats your tongue like it’s got no business doing, makes it harder than it should be to swallow.” Darry mumbles, scrapping the last remainder of the yoghurt into one final goopy scoop. 

“You missed a bit.” Wayne mutters distractedly, eyes downward, scrubbing determinedly. 

“10-4, good buddy.” Darry says cheerily, focus diligently downward. 

“It’s so damn good that you don’t want it to end, like a cold Puppers after a hot afternoon on the job … or when you’re mixing a really good batch, taking it long and slow after being on your feet all day…”

He pops the spoon into his mouth and hums contentedly, completely oblivious to his mouth running away with him. 

Wayne splutters, saliva going down the wrong way, grips his knuckles hard against the sink until the whites of his bones are visible through the skin. Darry just continues on making those unholy noises. They’re almost obscene in the quiet of the morning, in this open, domestic setting. 

“You really gotta try it sometime, Wayne.” He says with a nod, setting the empty container down. He folds his hands contentedly over his belly, finally glancing upwards with his stupid, dopey grin. “It’s super filling, so you’re leaving a satisfied customer every time. The perfect snack perfect at any time of day, morning or night, or afternoon delight. Hehe.”  


And that’s when Wayne really starts to lose his God-given mind. Darry’s grinning up at him with his stupidly endearing, lopsided smile, completely ignorant of the swathe of yoghurt stuck in the lining of his patchy moustache. 

“Like I said. It’s all over your face.” Wayne deadpans. 

“I know, right.” Darry grins like they’re sharing an inside joke. 

“No, I mean, look at yourself, bud. You’re a mess.” Wayne sighs. 

“It was a discussion about dairy products, Wayne. Ain’t no need to get your tighty whiteys in a twist over it.” Darry frowns, crestfallen as he leans back in his chair, still not understanding. 

Letting out an irritated huff, Wayne isn’t really sure why does what he does next. Maybe it’s the inefficiency of it all getting to him, the desire to get into the work and out of his head and away from all the strange thoughts and feeling percolating inside of him like a coffee pot about to boil over. 

Later, he’ll tell himself it’s because he’s a man of action. Words are always going to fail him where his own two hands are old reliable. 

He storms over to the table, planting himself on the opposite side with his thumbs in his belt loops. 

“Hold still.” He says shortly, before planting one palm sturdily on the table and leaning over it. 

With the other free hand, he uses his thumb to wipe the offending contents away from Darryl’s upper lip. 

That isn’t so much the problem in itself. When a man is too stupid to see that he needs a hand, you give him one and explain why later. 

It’s the lingering that turns the gesture from an act of goodness, a quirky thing to laugh about over a beer with your buddies later at the produce stand to something entirely less innocent. 

Instead of finishing the job smoothly and practically, Wayne’s thumb decides of its own accord to stutter to a halt half way through. 

“Well, fuck.” Wayne breathes, apologetic but unable to encourage his hand to get a move on. He’s staring at the cupid-bow peak of Darry’s lip under his thumb, plumper than it ought to be up close, parted in surprise. 

He’s way too close to his best buddy’s face, can see the too blue hue of his eyes, the blacks of his pupils eating up the rest of the surface like they’re the ones starving.  


“Oh, bother.” Darry stammers out.

The words break the silence, snapping him out of his indecision like a spell.

Wayne shoots off and up, backwards and off the table like he’s been struck. He feels a strangely warm sensation shoot up his spine, making his already too proper stance absurdly rigid.

“Thanks, good buddy.” Darry says. 

Wayne doesn’t miss the way his tongue shoots out hesitantly, licking up the rest of the yoghurt that he’s missed when he didn’t finish the job. Desire hits him in the stomach like a sucker punch, low and unexpected and sure to cause some hurt later. 

“Don’t mention it.” Wayne says, finally blinking, staring out the window. 

“Time to get at ‘er.” 

Darry nods as Wayne strides quickly out the door, slamming it in his haste. Wipes the back of his hand across his face, then stares at it like he forgot it was connected to his arm. 

He’s never been one for words but he thinks faintly that he knows what Stewart means when he says “wonderous”. 

* 

When Darry finally gives his balls a tug and finds the bottle to bring it up, the sun is setting behind the produce stand. Squirelly Dan has long gone home and he’s one too many Puppers deep into their afternoon unwind. 

“Why’d you do it?” Darry squints, rolling his bottle in his hands before squinting over at Wayne. Pretends it’s because of the sun, when in actuality he’s more than a little scarred of the outcome. 

“Do what?” Wayne doesn’t play dumb well enough for a hick and Darry wonders how he’s hidden it for so long, so well. 

“At the breakfast table…” Darry forges on, elbows on his knees. His Aunt Nancy had always said he was destined for a life of constant confusion, but he needs to be clearer than crystal in a meth pipe on this. 

Wayne grimaces at his hands like they hurt him, before standing up abruptly from his lawn chair. Darry is on his feet just as he’s within peak striking distance, cursing himself for not leave enough time to get his hands up should it come down to it. 

“If you’ve got something to say, then say it.” Wayne’s nostrils flare aggressively, hands balled into fists by his sides. 

“You coulda just told me…” Darry begins offhandedly. 

He doesn’t even get the chance to stumble over his poorly chosen words when Wayne’s hands are fisted up in his coveralls, dragging him impossibly close. Wonders if Wayne will throw him into the produce stand or go for the head butt first. 

“Ya callin’ me a sally?” Wayne snarls, eyes hard and grip tight and legs all spread akimbo like he’s raring for a good old-fashioned Donny Brook. 

Darry thinks that he’s never seen The Toughest Man in Letterkenny look so terrified in his entire life. 

“… about the yoghurt.” Darry finishes, lamely. 

Crickets chirp in the silence that falls over them, the most awkward it’s been between them in years. 

“I tried, but you’re basically preoccupied when you’re off on one of your rambles.” Wayne grouses, loosening his hold and patting Darry twice on the chest as he releases him, no harm, no foul.

“So why didn’t you let ‘er be?” Darry manages in a rush, voice broken on the wrong side of almost desperate. 

The setting sun is catching the light on Wayne’s frame in ways he’s never noticed before. The hard set of his jaw in his pretty face as he stubbornly chews over his words, the broad set of his shoulders, tensed for the confrontation. 

A hysterical bubble of fearful laughter wells up in Darry’s chest and he knows if he doesn’t seize the moment that he won’t get the chance again, can already see Wayne boxing it up and shipping it off, like watching one of their crates of produce disappear up the laneway and off into the distance. 

“You let ‘er be.” Wayne warns, but the fight has left his tone. 

“Hard no.” Darry juts his chin out defiantly. 

“It’s impolite to continue a conversation a man’s closed.” Wayne recites dutifully, dumping the dregs of his beer into the grass, before turning towards the house, “Leave it.”

Darry stutters, watches him begin to walk towards the house. Panic seizes in him and he can’t help but shake the feeling that if he lets him that he’s doing more than just letting him leave an unfinished dialogue between friends. 

“Well I ain’t done talking yet!” Darry hollers, louder than intended. 

“If you keep going, I’m going to come back over there and really give you a talking to.” 

When Wayne keeps walking, his brains ticks over quicker than he can ever remember it, desperate to by himself more time as he feels his chance slipping away. 

“You’re the one always telling me I’m super soft, but you ain’t as tough as you claim to be.” He yells, “Hardly no Clint Eastwood, running from the truth and leaving your best buddy high and dry!” 

He spits, waits, braces for impact. 

And Wayne comes, cuffs snapping off as he goes, boots kicking up dust as he storms back up the laneway, furious. 

“You calling me a coward, big shooter?” Wayne is right up in his face, spit flecking with just how frustrated he is. 

“Just calling it as I see it, so why don’t you lay it on me.” Darry challenges, refusing to break eye contact or back down. If he’s going down, he wants to see it coming, and he’ll go planted firmly on his own two feet, swinging like a champ. 

Wayne squints at him, hard, sizing him up. 

“You got a big mouth, Daryl.” He grits out, eyes darting down to look at it, considering. 

“Affirmative.” Darry coughs, mouth suddenly too dry. He’s so close that he can see the point where Wayne’s hairline is starting to recede, the furrow of his thick brows as they point towards his nose. The top button on his shirt undone after the day’s chorin’. 

He sets his shoulder like his mama taught him after his deadbeat pa walked out on them, prepares himself to taste the underside of Wayne’s boot.

“You never know when to shut it. Always have to take it one step too far, ever since we were kids. Always knew it was going to get you into some trouble you couldn’t get yourself out of one day.”

Darry opens his mouth to respond, always the one for the last word, just as Wayne moves in to close it for him. 

Not with a fist or a shoulder to the face or a kiss from his forehead, but with his own lips. 

He starts in surprise before leaning into it like he has everything else in his dauntingly ordinary life, enthusiastically and heedless of the potential danger of the outcome. 

Wayne’s lips are chapped from the sun and closed, a chaste press of bare movement that feels like too much and nowhere near enough all at once. His hands are at his sides but their bodies are so near fit together that Darry can feel the faint press of his cock against his too-fitted jeans. Whether stirred to arousal from the potential for a fight or from lay one on with his best buddy, Darry is happy to take whatever he can get, even if this is it for the rest of his pathetic, unworthy life.

Because he can’t ever help himself, Darry responds by pushing things a little further. Insistently opens his mouth and pushes his tongue against Wayne’s lips, grabbing him around the neck and dragging him in when he starts like he’s ready to pull away. 

Only knowing how to respond to physicality with force in turn, Wayne grabs Darry’s head with both hands, knotting his fingers into his dirty curls. The inside of Wayne’s mouth tastes like beer and cigarettes and the grit of a hard day’s labour and everything he never knew he wanted. 

Darry wants to drink him dry, but Wayne turns off the tap, shoves him away, and it’s all over, red rover. 

“Fuck, Daryl.” Wayne mutters, breathing hard. 

Darry glances as him once he musters up the courage. His body looks ready to go, cock still straining. Thinks his oldest friend might run if it weren’t in his nature to die on his own sword. His cheeks are flushed prettier than the sunset and his almond eyes are blinking double time in disbelief, mouth gaping like a guppy. 

“Is that a good fuck or a bad fuck?” He ventures, straightening his own coveralls, willing his own dick to take it down a notch, if only so as not to scare Wayne away completely, alert him to the fact that maybe he wants this just as much as he does. 

“It’s impolite to kiss and tell.” Wayne mumbles, running a hand over his jaw. 

“I ain’t your sweetie.” Darry says, stupid brain shooting off answers too quickly. He back tracks, heart dropping and leaping again his chest when Wayne’s face shifts for a second, like that wasn’t the response that he wanted to hear, before resetting to neutral. 

“I mean to say…I’m just your buddy, asking if that was okay.” He clarifies. 

“You’re spare parts, you know that?” Wayne says finally, and Darry tries not to look too put out by it. 

Must fail at that too, because Wayne steps forward again, just out of touching distance, body itching with the urge to do something and nothing at the same time. 

“Sometimes you spend so much time off with the fairies in your head that ya forget to look after yourself out here.” Wayne continues, uncharacteristically candid. He reaches out and brushes his big hands down the front of Darry’s coveralls. If he notices Darry shiver, press into the contact, he doesn’t say anything about it, keeps his distance. 

“You’re spare parts, bud but you’re my spare parts. ‘Kay?”  


“’Kay.” Darry says, unable to hide the dopey smile that he can feel spreading across his face as sure as you can’t hide a shit stain on a skid’s underwear. 

“Figure it out.” Wayne says, shoving him lightly in the chest with a shake of his head before heading back towards the house. 

Darry stands there, transfixed to the spot, unable to believe his luck before heading up the laneway after him.


End file.
